


how to catch a f(r)iend

by stingrcy



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: (You. Nonbinary Character is You.), Alternate Universe - Bittybones, Gen, I have no idea where I'm going with this, Mostly Platonic Everything, No Romance, No Smut, Nonbinary Character, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Relationships, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-05 23:47:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11588661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stingrcy/pseuds/stingrcy
Summary: "Hey!" Sweet realisation hits you like a sharpened bone to the foot, though that may be the pain of having multiple sharpened bones lodged in your undeserving foot talking. You point an accusing finger at your tiny, bony intruder, "What the fresh hell, dude!"You'd think that would get something out of him, maybe an 'I'm so sorry' or even an 'AAAAAH', but he's no more receptive to your indignation than he was three seconds ago.To be fair, though, it seems like he's lost reception to anything and everything around him; he's completely frozen, stock-still in a pose that's half 'oh shit, I fucked up and should face the consequences of my actions like a responsible person' and half 'oh shit, I fucked up and should get the fuck out of here because I very much like being an alive person'. It would have been a cute sight if you weren't, you know, in unspeakable pain and bleeding to death via foot-mutilation.





	how to catch a f(r)iend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i must admit, i have absolutely no idea where i'm going with this very cute, very short-lived idea. so. if this suddenly stops updating for some strange reason, you know why. lmao i haven't touched the fandom side of my life in months and?? i haven't touched the undertale fandom in YEARS??? haven't even played the game since 2015 ahaaaa,,,
> 
> also it's four in the damn morning and i'm running on half-awake fumes so forgive me if things aren't as articulate as you'd like them to be.
> 
> the whole bitty concept belongs to fucken-crybaby, aka http://bittybones-au.tumblr.com/
> 
> quick warning: there is a lot of swearing up ahead and a tiny bit of implied transphobia and ableism. the latter two are exhibited for five seconds by some nameless oc i whipped up in less than three seconds so please don't take them to heart.

It happens on one of the worst nights of your life.

The day starts off pretty fantastically, ironically enough — four of your clients have to push their session back to next week, allowing you a few extra hours of leisure on the job. In those hours, you manage to sleep in, catch that one new superhero movie everyone was so excited about, finally snag a tart or ten from that cheese tart stand you'd been eyeing for a while now, and generously refill your stock of limited edition Tim Tams. Goodbye mango and caramel, hello coconut and lychee! Needless to say, you come to the office with bright steps and an even brighter smile.

As per usual with people who seem to be hated by every deity out there, everything falls apart from then on.

Because of your late arrival, you can't avoid one of your more... _unpleasant_ coworkers — known as That One Guy to you because he absolutely does not deserve the courtesy of you remembering his name — like you do every other day. By the end of your touching reunion, he's misgendered you seventeen times, made eleven ableist jokes about his clients, and given three unsolicited pats to your forearm. By the time your first client comes in, you're less than inspired to meet the rest of the day head-on.

Unfortunately, so are they. There's nothing wrong with that, of course — you're here to ease some of that negativity away, after all, but their snappy remarks and guarded detachment do get a bit emotionally taxing to work with after a while. They're only a mite happier when they leave, and you hope you'll be able to talk and consequently help more next time, but their half-smile is enough to bring your low spirits up just that bit higher for now.

Then, because he knows you're here today and evidently can't wrap his head around the idea of you being even marginally content, That One Guy barges in and ruins everything. "Good work on that one, miss! I know how difficult they can be."

You're fucking done.

"Okay, you listen here, you fucking oversized grapefruit: I'm either 'Doctor' or 'Mix' to you, alright? Nothing else. No 'miss', no 'mister', _nothing_. And I won't have you talking shit about our consumers, you fucking—"

The day continues in a similar fashion. Client in, client out. That One Guy tries to impress you by belittling them (and you), you give him a piece of your damn mind, and he smiles like everything you say goes over his head. If it were not for the laws of this land, you would have slaughtered him already. (You'll just have to make do with stepping on his feet and burning his hands with scalding coffee.)

You leave your workplace with a big frown and even bigger headache, mostly because you had to deal with That One Guy the entire day and partially because it started raining at four and hasn't stopped since. It's now ten. You don't have an umbrella. You don't have a car. You think you just missed your bus.

Fuck.

When you get home two hours later, you're drenched, miserable, and pleasantly reminded of the fact that you forgot to close a window after some fish-frying last night when you flick on the lights and are greeted by the sight of your kitchen in (wet) shambles.

_Fuck_.

You surge forward to shut and lock the window before anything unwelcome can invade your home, hoping against all hope and reason that nothing did so during the time you were away at work. Grabbing two hand towels from the counter and cursing your existence while you're at it, you go about mopping up the— hold the fuck up, what is that.

There, on the floor in the near corner  _just a few centimetres away from your foot,_  sits a ring of white... _somethings._ A ring of white somethings with a small, skeletal figure in the centre of it all. A small, skeletal figure whose fingers (they're still called fingers when they're bones, right?) are wrapped around half of the last mango and caramel Tim Tam in your collection.

What the fuck.

"Um." You lean down a bit to better examine this Weird Occurrence. The Weird Occurrence studies you in return, though with a much more awe-filled gaze. That _is_ awe, right? Could be fear. You can't really tell, given that...it? They? You'll have to ask about pronouns later. In any case, the Weird Occurrence has no eyes, which makes the whole _if you want to read someone, read their eyes_  thing infinitely harder. "Hey, buddy. Uh. What're you doing there?"

They flinch at the question and hastily throw the Tim Tam as far away from them as they can (which, admittedly, is not very far), before scrambling to their feet and shuffling four steps away from you. (It doesn't increase the distance between you all that much, really, but hey, whatever keeps them comfortable.) Without the delicious biscuit shielding nearly everything from their neck down from view, you finally realise exactly what you're dealing with here.

They're a bitty, you believe. One of those trendy pet-companion-friend beings that exploded in creation and popularity a few years ago. You've seen them around enough that you can recognise that — heck, two of your clients occasionally bring their bitties with them to their sessions. Man, how did you not realise this before? Well, at least you know what pronouns to use, now.

Okay, but if he's a bitty, then what are those white things surrounding him? That's not a normal thing, is it? The last time you interacted with one, they were definitely not a normal thing. He's a skeleton, so maybe they're bones? They're very sharp-looking for bones, in that case. Why is the circle incomplete? Oh, hold on, right, because your foot's blocking— holy shit, is your foot bleeding.

Holy shit, your foot is bleeding.

Which...can only mean...?

You look down at it. The actual pain doesn't seem to register itself in your mind just yet, so for a few moments you just stare while some hazy, far-off part of you wonders: is this real? Is this happening? Is this an Actual Thing that is Actually Happening? Before you can further spiral into the one-sided debate of whether or not that is _your_  Actual Foot that's been Actually Stabbed, a flare of pure agony runs up your leg and you drop to the floor with a quiet, aggrieved _thump_ and a not-so-quiet, aggrieved, "Shoot, heck, whaaaaa—?"

Motherfucking shit, that fucking hurts, you think. Then say aloud, because  _motherfucking shit, that fucking hurts_.

You're not paying attention to him, so you'll never be able to really know, but you think he flinches again when you do that and you suddenly feel really hecking bad. The poor guy's obviously been through a crap-ton of a lot tonight — what with you so rudely intruding on him eating  _your_  delicious snacks in  _your_  extremely private household — and here you are, swearing up a storm and making him feel so much worse.

Wait.

"Hey!" Sweet realisation hits you like a sharpened bone to the foot, though that may be the pain of having _multiple_ sharpened bones lodged in your undeserving foot talking. You point an accusing finger at your tiny, bony intruder, "What the fresh hell, dude!"

You'd think _that_ would get something out of him, maybe an  _I'm so sorry_ or even an  _AAAAAH_ , but he's no more receptive to your indignation than he was three seconds ago.

To be fair, though, it seems like he's lost reception to anything and everything around him; he's completely frozen, stock-still in a pose that's half  _oh shit, I fucked up and should face the consequences of my actions like a responsible person_ and half  _oh shit, I fucked up and should get the fuck out of here because I very much like being an alive person_. It would have been a cute sight if you weren't, you know, in unspeakable pain and bleeding to death via foot-mutilation.

"Dude," you suck in a breath, then another, and are just about to inhale another before your lungs balefully remind you that exhalation is also a part of proper respiration. "Your— uh— your whatsits. Bone thingies. You made them appear, yeah? Please make them go away."

He does nothing.

"Dude. Your bone-knives. Knife-bones? Whatever the fuck they are. _Please make them go away_."

"I-I—" he stutters, then squeaks, then says nothing at all.

You're not proud of how you respond to that, but...God, you've— you've had a long day. You're exhausted, cold, wet, and just got stabbed in the hecking foot. You're not exactly the epitome of self-control at the moment.

" _Fuck_ , dude, come on!"

This, predictably, is a wrong move. He's back to violently recoiling from your voice, shoulders jumping straight up to his— er— to where his ears  _would_ be if he had any and small frame scrunching up like a— oh God, was that a sniffle? Are those tears? Lo and behold, those _are_ tears! Red, translucent, _how the fuck are you crying you're a dang skeleton_ tears, but tears nonetheless! Don't _you_ just feel like the worst person in the world right now. Oh man, he's quivering like a damn leaf in the wind, too, and giving you the most piteous look you've ever seen in your entire life! How is his bony face doing that?!Oh noooo, here comes the snivelling again, _arghhh_ —!

"H-hey, hey, don't— no, no no no— I'm sorry— shh, shh, shhh—" The words tumble out of your mouth before you can even think of stopping them, all gentle lilts and quiet hisses. He takes a few shuddering breaths but otherwise stills at the change in your tone, and you take that chance to slowly crouch down to half your size and clasp your hands together in mock prayer. "God, please don't cry, it's just— you see, your foot-killers are _very_ effective in their foot-killing and, well, I'd congratulate you on a job well done any _other_ day but— hey, no no, _shh_ , it's okay, shh— but that's— that's  _my_ foot they're killing, see, so I'd really very much appreciate it if you could maybe, you know, make them...go away?"

The both of you proceed to stare at each other in relative silence after that, the only noises disturbing that haze of uncomfortable quiet being the patter of rain outside and the not-quite-stifled hiccups of a crying skeleton. This goes on for much longer than you'd like, but you don't say a word. You can't afford to scare him off, not until he gets your foot out of its unfortunate predicament, so you settle for twisting your fingers and wondering what it'd be like to be able to punch That One Guy in the face without repercussions.

You're in the middle of envisioning the fourth time your fist meets his nose — as well as the hysterical, cackle-inducing shriek that comes from him with it — when your tiny trespasser finally speaks up.

"S-sorry," he whispers, so softly, so timidly — you wouldn't have heard him if your attention wasn't caught by the fact that the bones encircling him, including the ones embedded in your foot, vanished a second earlier. (You try not to wince when a new wave of pain washes over your nerves.) "Sorry, I d-didn't— you weren't— I—"

You wait for him to get his thoughts and words together with a patient smile, even though every piece of Common Sense left in your mind screams at you to skedaddle to the bathroom, find that old  _I meant to give this away but couldn't find it in my motivation to do so_ first-aid kit your neighbour gifted you ("I'm not _that_ kind of doctor, Terrence, why would you even— and you're walking away, okay."), and maybe call an ambulance because you actually don't know shit about treating stab wounds. Especially stab wounds to the foot. On second thought, would what just happened to your foot count as a serious stabbing? Those bone-knives pierced your skin, yeah, but it isn't like they cut straight through to the other side or anything. Did they even go halfway through? They were definitely big enough to, but it doesn't feel like they did now that you think about it. You're still leaking blood and all, so it can't be that light of an injury, but you're probably not as close to death as you first thought you were. Man, having Panic and Desperation as your guiding feelings can really blow things out of proportion, huh?

"I-I was just so hungry and cold a-and outside is so wet and d-dark and—"

Oh shit, is he still talking?

"And inside here's d-dark, too, but it's w-warmer and you have food a-and—"

Shit, he's still talking. Oh heck, he's still crying, too! Fuck!

"It's _sweet!_ " He suddenly shouts, eyes— eyes? Eye sockets? Eye sockets squeezed impossibly tight (seriously, how is his bony face doing that?) and tears falling faster than ever. His sniffles have evolved into full-blown sobs now, soul-rending sounds punctuated by high-pitched whines, hitched breaths, and valiant (albeit fruitless) attempts to reign it all back in. You think you hear the sound of something shattering. Must be your heart. "It's so sweet and n-nice and lots better th-than— than—"

He makes some strangled noise and folds in on himself, blubbering something too garbled for you to make out, before plopping down on his backside and resuming semi-coherent speech once more. Common Sense is still hollering about running the fuck out of there. "I'm s-so sorry, you s-scared me and I didn't mean to b-but I _did_ , please d-don't hurt me,  _please don't_ —"

You can't listen to this anymore.

"Hey," you cut in before he can continue any further, voice remarkably steady despite your jittery  _AHH, YOU POOR BABY, WHAT THE FUCK_ feelings. "Dude, I'm not— I'm not gonna hurt you. Wouldn't ever dream of it, really. It's okay, little man, you're fine."

"But I h-hurt you!"

Wow. He's got a pretty big heart for a guy who broke into your home and pilfered your limited edition Tim Tams.

"Well, yeah, but—"

"And I-I ate your food!"

_Huge_ heart. "Yes, you did, but look—"

"Y-you're gonna— you're gonna—!" _Sniffle_. "I'm gonna die here!"

Woah, what?! "What?!"

"D-don't hurt me! I-I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'll be g-good, please don't— don't—"

"N-no! No no no, shh, _shh_. Honey, I'm not gonna hurt you, I swear, I'm not gonna hurt you. I'm not even gonna touch you, okay—"

He gasps, zeroes in on the word 'touch', and does what you should have done ages ago.

"Don't touch me!" It's more of a wailing plea than a demand, but before you can apologise for distressing him again, he's jumping to his feet and getting the heck out of dodge, leaving you alone in the kitchen with nothing to do but grab at empty air and listen to the retreating _pat-pat-pat_ of his steps.

A minute passes. Then another. Then another.

What just happened, you ask yourself.

Your house got broken in, your foot got stabbed, and you now have a highly frightened, upset, and possibly _volatile_  bitty hiding in your home somewhere, Common Sense answers.

Well, fuck, you think. Then say aloud, because _well, fuck_.

Damn straight, Common Sense replies. Damn straight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: sorry for the long wait, lovelies, but i swear i'll have the next chapter up relatively soon! thank y'all for reading and taking interest in this fic ❤


End file.
